After the Crimson Time
by HetaliaLove
Summary: Actually, its untitled. Russia hasn't been seen as of late and China goes to help. Rated M for what I have planned. My first fic.
1. Chapter 1

The house is very quiet, Russia thinks.

There is a space in his thoughts after that, a blank, heedless space filled only with the muted colors of Russia's empty dining room around him and the reflections of voices in his open eyes. No, it is not quiet. His house is never quiet, even in the dead of his frozen winters. Thousands of footsteps drum the pavement of roads, the Moscow Metro rattles and spills out the countless people commuting in the morning rush, the sound of wood splitting on the chopping blocks cracks loudly in the cold countryside air. It is not quiet, and there is work to be done.

Russia sits and doesn't move from his place at the dining room table, all blank, dark glossy wood, and just thinks of summer's warmth and running children laughing; and fields of sunflowers so vast they drown him in the yellow smell.

_#_#_

_'The days are still cold here in March,'_ China remembers. He breathes warmth on his fingertips as he walks, the hot air swirling past his face, and he casts a glance at the cars and variously colored taxis rushing by on his left. Most of his memory of Russia's land is vague, he does not remember much of the roads, for example, despite having visited several times. Nevertheless, he remembers enough to walk the last leg of his journey instead of taking a taxi the whole way. He does not really want anyone, even a driver who will very likely never realize who he is and what he signifies, to know where he is going today.

Since today he is going to see Russia. In this kind of today; with their governments still on bad terms with each other. China hasn't even spoken to Russia since they split a few decades ago, let alone paid him a visit. Russia has likewise made no attempt to break their mutual, cold silence. _'And why would he?'_ They were both doing just fine without each other.

Fine, that is, until last year when the Soviet Union had collapsed and Russia had stopped coming to the world meetings all together.

Which is why – _'the __**only**__ reason why' _– China is here now. It wasn't even entirely his idea. At the last world meeting, Belarus had raised the issue: Russia, she informed them, had not been seen at all since everyone had left his house. Not at political talks, not at the world meetings, not even around his own house. Her eyes and voice had been lowered unusually in her concern. She had then gone on to propose – in the interest of checking his well-being, she ensured – breaking into her brother's house. Through the front door. With her bare hands, if necessary. At this point Ukraine had carefully and nervously dissuaded her younger sister from such a course of action. Russia, she'd suggested softly, might just want some time alone.

...Russia, wanting to be **alone**? As if.

Belarus had eventually, reluctantly backed down. America had shrugged, a little uneasily, and proclaimed with stubborn optimism that Russia was a capable enough guy to stand up on his own again. No problem. Just give him some space, let him sort things out a bit, he'd be back harassing people before you knew it. Right.

And that had been that. Or it should have been, if China could keep Belarus' words from nagging at him. Russia had not been seen _at all _since the dissolution of the Soviet Union. The silence from the north, China was used to, but... this? Being completely reclusive? As a nation, as a neighbor, he couldn't help but find it... strange. Curious. Disconcerting. He wasn't even sure what he thought. And somehow that had lead his thoughts on a convoluted trail of logic with the conclusion that a short visit, at least, just to check how Russia was doing, should be... _acceptable._ Perhaps.

Or, as China draws near to Russia's apartment, maybe not. Considering that this 'short visit' of his was not actually endorsed by his government. Or really even **known **by his government. And how had he managed to convince himself to do this again he didn't even–

His footsteps scuff on the pavement as he stops in front of the apartment building. China looks up at the elegant pre-Revolutionary building, at once familiar and different. This is the closest he has approached his northern neighbor for a long time. China hesitates, presses his lips together as if in reproof of his hesitation – yes, Russia is his neighbor, and as such he has every right to visit him – and strides the last small distance to the building.

Inside, he walks up the stairs at a reserved pace, pauses in front of Russia's door – '_yes_,' he remembers '_it's this one'_ – and knocks solidly on it.

The unknown interior of the apartment swallows the sounds of the knocking. China waits a bit, knocks again, stands there.

After a long moment, he considers if kung-fu kicking the door in movie-style would actually work in real life, and whether that counts as an invasion. An invasion is the last thing he wants to be mistaken for doing right now. Then he considers the various punch-lines of that kind of situation and tries the door handle.

It opens, easily. China's eyebrows rise as he twists it, before he pushes the door inwards.

Light seeps into the apartment from the opened doorway. It's dank inside; all the curtains are closed, smothering the daylight from the tall windows. China inhales the stale, suffocating, and faintly alcoholic-tasting air as he pokes his head tentatively inside. It is as if the place has been completely sealed off for months. It is not a pleasant thought. For a moment, China hovers uncertainly in the doorway, trying to remember what Russia's penalties for trespassing are. He eventually gives up and steps carefully across the threshold. He is not here as a diplomat anyway. '_No'_, he thought, he was here as Wang Yao.

A few steps inside, the sound and texture of broken glass crunches under a shoe. China looks down and slowly raises his foot. The glass rasps again and catches tiny bits of what light is available in tiny, white fragments. It is, well, _was_, unmistakably a vodka bottle. Several vodka bottles.

China, frowning, raises his head again, takes a breath of the alcohol-pungent air and calls in a voice made louder by the silence, "Iv-" He stops himself, "Russia!"

There is no answer. He is not surprised, somehow, seeing the state of Russia's house from the inside. He calls again and when the echo of his voice ends this time immediately _listens._

Silent, for a moment. Then, a minute scraping sound from somewhere further in twitches at China's ears.

China steps over the broken glass and walks straight towards the sound. He wonders, briefly, at the boldness of his actions and their potentially disastrous consequences. They certainly don't stop him though, from striding down the shadow-swallowed hallway and halting in front of a familiar wooden door. Or from knocking on it, twice, before twisting it unceremoniously open.

Glass tinkles again as the door pushes it aside. More broken bottles. China releases the door handle, folds his arms and stares at Russia.

Russia is sitting at the foot of his bed, facing the left wall. It is hard to tell in the dimness but he looks... _thinner._ And his hair and clothes are rumpled like he has not cared for them in – China does not want to think for how long. The blankets covering the bed are also rumpled, but made, as if he has slept on top of them rather than in them. China drags his eyes around the room, to survey the similar neglect. The furniture and ornaments look barely touched under their shawl of dust. Indeed, the cleanest-looking surfaces in the room are those of the countless glass vodka bottles, their edges capturing and glinting off scratches of light, some broken, some intact, all empty, and the sheer number of them littering the floor and tables is – _'There is no way Russia drank all that'_–

Slowly, fractionally, Russia shifts his head in China's direction, eyes sliding blindly over the wall. He is not looking at China when he asks, mumbles,

"Lithuania?" His voice is strained and rough.

China levels his gaze and keeps his voice steady, careful. "No. I'm not Lithuania."

Russia slumps slightly. Or, rather than slumping, he seemed to fold a little more into himself. China looks at him in silence again and then says, because he doesn't know what else to say, "Russia, I came to check on you."

Russia doesn't respond, in words or in gesture. China chews on his lip, his frown deepening. Then,

"I want my sisters."

It's a very small voice. His shoulders shake, just the tiniest bit, and China suddenly realizes, with a feeling like his stomach has gone hollow, that there are tears tracking down Russia's face.

Russia draws his knees up to his chest like a child, like he is trying to make himself smaller – and it looks almost ridiculous, on a man of his size – and drags a sleeve across his eyes. "I want Ukraine." His voice sounds pitiful, broken. "Where is Ukraine? Where is Belarus? Did they leave me, too?"

China stands there as if frozen to the spot, as Russia's sobs grow louder. The blonde nation scrapes at his eyes with his sleeve again, both sleeves now; he was like a child trying to stem his misery.

China's feet move across the glass-strewn floor. He shouldn't – physically, symbolically, politically, everything – but he does, he pulls Russia's head with his thickly-sleeved arms and presses the side of his tear-smudged face against his chest. Barely thinking, barely needing to think, he shushes and croons and rocks gently back and forth, back and forth, like he used to for his siblings when they were very, very young. Russia doesn't lean into the embrace, but he doesn't pull away either; just cries like there is no one here at all. And his tears are making a mess down the front of China's coat, but that's okay – that's the only thought in China's head as he cradles Russia, 'I_t's okay, it's okay, it's okay.'_


	2. Chapter 2

This chapter's longer C:

Also, I found out that this site didn't like what I was using as breaks between POVs... Oops~ I'm too lazy to go back through it though... sorry.

* * *

Russia wakes up to the sound of cupboard doors slamming somewhere in the direction of the kitchen. There is the ringing clatter of porcelain as well, accompanied by a loud but indistinct – and dissatisfied-sounding – voice. That is not the most pressing issue on Russia's mind though. For some reason, the curtains are open and far too much bright, early morning light is spilling through the glass and into his eyes. And brain, in little stabbing pieces. So he drags himself slowly out from under the blankets and yanks the heavy fabric closed, before retreating back to the bed. The ruckus from the kitchen has, thankfully, stopped by now, concluding with the pound of departing footsteps and sound of the front door opening and closing.

It is quiet now. Russia curls up into himself and closes his eyes again.

_#_#_

The next time Russia opens his eyes, the heavier curtain has been drawn partially aside, with the aged, white, lace-patterned curtain left across the glass. It makes the light coming through softer, more tolerable, and Russia stares at it blearily, letting his eyes adjust to the brightness.

After a moment he sits slowly up and rubs his eyes. He does not know whether the ache in his skull and his ribcage has gotten better or worse, but he knows that he is thirsty. So he will find something to drink.

He pulls himself off the bed. His coat – his coat is over there, on the back of that chair. When did it get there? It doesn't matter. He puts it on.

He goes into the hallway. He goes into the kitchen. He stops.

China looks up from– shelling peas? And nods briefly at Russia. "Hello," he says, simply. And continues shelling the peas. Into a bowl next to the kitchen sink.

Russia blinks, slowly. Maybe he is in 1950, or maybe this isn't China – it _isn't_ China, it _can't_ be, but – it just looks a lot like him.

"…China?" he murmurs,checking to validate that it is, in fact, not China. He feels and hears that his voice is low and stiff with rust.

China's eyes flick up at him again. "Yes?"

It... really sounds a lot like China as well. And he responded as China. But it is not actually China, because China cannot be here, because Russia is supposed to be mad at China.

And China is meant to be mad at Russia. The corners of Russia's mouth bend downwards and he moves to sit, unhappily, on one of the kitchen stools. His elbows lean heavily on the wooden bench top in front of him and he slumps down on his arms. He does not want China here, if China is angry at him.

There is no sound, except for the faint crinkle of the pea pods. Russia raises his head unenthusiastically from his arms and watches China with as much apprehension as he can muster. The dark-haired nation, seeming not to notice, peels open pod after pod and tips the green contents into the bowl; nonchalantly, as if Russia is not here. Russia's mouth tightens at that. This is _his_ house. How dare China ignore him at...

There is an ache in his chest, another ache on top of the others all dragging and tightening inside his ribcage. Russia half-rubs a hand over his eyes and leans on it, listlessly, tenting his fingers into the side of his fringe. He should get rid of China. He should ask him to leave, he should ask him why he is here. Russia's throat feels broken and he feels that he cannot speak. His eyes follow and fall into the rhythm of China's slender little fingers working on the legumes, and he lets them. Maybe he will just watch like this, saying nothing, and China will not say anything either. Maybe China will leave. (It is not like China wants to be here, after all.)

China is silent, but he makes no motion to leave. At some point he stands up, dusts his hands off and takes the bowl over to the other side of the sink, where there are more vegetables. He takes the chopping board down, finds a knife and starts cutting them up.

The drum of the blade on the board knocks around in Russia's skull. He listens to it, the regular, wooden sound, and slowly lets his eyes lose focus. Like this, he can almost pretend it is Ukraine bending over the kitchen bench, chopping up the ingredients for borscht, or even Lithuania making kapytki, or it is even China from when they first allied under the red banner. (The kitchen had always been alive in those times, clattering and ringing and humming. Russia had liked that very much.)

Oil hisses in the heat of a pan. Russia's eyes re-focus slightly and follow the sway of China's arms and waist as he tips something else into the pan, spreads it over the metal with a spatula. The already-cooked rice in a small pot goes in next. The hot oil spits in protest; China unrepentantly mashes it in.

Russia finds his eyelids drooping again and blinks heavily to keep them open. He should watch. There is an intruder in his house. He **wants** to watch, and he knows both reasons why but can't quite hold onto the thoughts right now because it's… like sleep, almost, animated, lulling sleep, all this light crashing of pans and cutlery bouncing through his head –

Time stops then skips, and there is a sudden _clunk_ as a bowl is set on the bench top. Russia blinks at it. A single white bowl with a blue flower pattern sits on the other side of the kitchen bench. China tilts the pan over it and scrapes all the fried rice neatly into the bowl, not sparing a single grain or slice of vegetable. When he has finished, he goes briskly back to the sink to rinse out the pan.

Russia stares at the steaming bowl and, for a moment, cannot pinpoint why he feels so disappointed. He is used – _was_ used – to seeing China always arrange two sets of cutlery and bowls after cooking: one for himself and one for Russia. Now there is only one bowl; it is 1992, not 1950, and China only cooks for himself now. Russia notices as a blunt pain lodges itself into his pulse and he curls back into his arms as if to hold it away. China has not cooked for him in over forty years, and he should have remembered that. His hands clench slightly. What is China doing in _his_ kitchen then? He can cook in his own home. He doesn't need to be here. _No one_ needs to be here. He wants his family back.

Russia's chest and head and throat hurts. He wants China to go away. China brings back too much by just being there.

There is a small, metallic clink against the wood, like a spoon being laid down next to the bowl.

From across the bench, China's voice says, "You should eat that before it goes cold."

His footsteps patter on the wooden floor as he walks around the kitchen bench and disappears down the hallway. After a while there is the sound of windows in other rooms being opened and furniture being shifted and dusted.

Russia eventually looks up from his arms. Steam is still rising from the bowl. He watches it uncurl into the air for a long time, until it has almost ceased, before he picks up the spoon.

_#_#_

China has finished sweeping the living room and kitchen area. It is free of glass shards and bottles now, and he has drawn all the curtains open, letting early spring light into the apartment. He surveys the room critically, one hand on the broom and the other on his hip, and confirms to himself – with a small measure of satisfaction – _'it is a much better change.'_

The furniture still needs a proper wiping-down though, and the cushions should be aired, and the curtains washed, and the multitude of little ornaments on the mantelpiece polished. China examines the crowd of brightly painted dolls and boxes and tarnished metal photo frames above the fireplace and decides to leave them until last. They look too personal.

China puts the broom and dustpan back, takes out the garbage, washes his hands in the kitchen and then wonders what to make for lunch.

Wonders _what is he doing here. _

There is a loud _thunk_ as China's forehead meets an overhead cupboard. What is he _doing_, standing in _Russia's_ kitchen, sweeping _Russia's_ floor and thinking _what to make Russia for lunch._ _No, no, no, wrong, wrong, __**wrong**__._ He can't being doing this. There's – Russia will get _mad_. Russia might hurt him. Their governments will find out. China might make Russia's condition even worse. Something important might happen in China's house while he isn't there. Oh, the list is _endless_ – no matter how and how many times he thinks about this there is simply _no freaking way_ he can stay here. He should – he _needs_ – to be in his own house; he has his hands full enough trying to look after himself, let alone another entire nation (a nation who should be so much stronger than himself) and if he had a _scrap_ of common sense in him he would walk out right now and get on the next flight home.

But it's just – it's not _right_ either, to leave Russia here like this. China folds his arms, squeezes them tightly against himself and groans slightly in his throat. And why isn't it right? 'Right' for a country is only what is right for themselves, not for others. Nations who don't abide by this fact die. He knows that. God, he knows that better than any of them –

He knows a lot of things better than any of them. China bites his lip, the _other_ heavy, unlucky fragment of knowledge dragging in the back of his brain. He is _not supposed to be here._ Not just because Russia might get angry, or might throw him out, or might get worse – no, he is not supposed to be here because he is China, and China is not supposed to be with Russia – except that he _is_, right now.

China squeezes his eyes shut and can feel the uneasiness spreading in his gut, like it does whenever he thinks about this, before he can brush it off (or pretend to brush it off). He is a country, and he wonders how many other countries realize the arbitrariness of the way cause and effect applies to their kind.

It is easy, for example, to comprehend that a war will leave scars on their flesh and a famine will starve them even as they sit surrounded by the most splendid imperial court. It is not so easy to understand that the knife wound they inflicted on themselves one day in a childish tantrum will erupt into a full-scale peasant rebellion the next –

China tightens his arms and exhales, dispelling the memory but not the knowledge. _There. _That is where the danger lies. He is a country, and he is in another country's house without anyone's permission – no, without anyone's _will_. It can't happen. It is a discrepancy. It is dangerous. Him _being in Russia's house like this is so very dangerous_, for how the action might manifest when it, an inconsistency in history, corrects itself – when his actions and China's actions marry together, because they are the same thing.

He can't be here. China knows this. He thinks of this, and of the past, of survival, of being a country. He thinks of suffering, and of the things that they, as the nations, are forbidden by Heaven to do.

He thinks of Russia, sitting curled and fragmented and alone in the darkness of his empty apartment, and slowly moves to gather the kitchen utensils he will need for cooking lunch.

I'm busy today, so I might not update tomorrow!


End file.
